


smile

by goldenthunderstorms (PotatosaurusOfBroadway)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Gay Disasters, Heavy Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lots of Angst, M/M, Simon is sad, another sofa fic oops, based on a tumblr prompt, baz doing his best, but cute ending, gentle baz, hes just really important to me ok, i cant make them suffer forever, late to the bandwagon tho, lots of tags wow, oh well enjoy this, therapy!!!, why do I like writing depressed simon so much?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 01:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatosaurusOfBroadway/pseuds/goldenthunderstorms
Summary: A "Simon Snow is lying on the sofa" fic combined with the tumblr prompt "Person A undergoing physical/mental torture that essentially leaves them broken and as the shell of the person they once were before. Person B saves them and cares for them, doing everything/anything in their power to bring some–any–semblance of their old self back. The day Person A cracks a smile, Person B nearly has a breakdown."





	smile

**Author's Note:**

> minor tw: suicide attempt? idk its not graphic or deep just,,,yeah be ready. also lots of talk of depression but that feels obvious  
> also I can never tell when baz calls simon and penny by their first or last names so it alternates

**Baz**

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.

He’s been lying on the sofa for the past week. But this is nothing new. Bunce says this sort of thing has been normal for the past month and a half. But only now has Simon laid down and not gotten up.

I don’t understand it. It’s been months since the White Chapel fiasco, fewer months since the trial of the death of the Mage, and it’s been two months since the Leavers’ Ball. I thought Simon was getting better.

After the incident, it was like Simon had blown a fuse. I suppose he had. He was quiet, but he was always on edge. He was wide-eyed, flinching at the slightest movement, clinging to me or Bunce, like he was constantly terrified of being left or messing up. There were nightmares, screaming and shaking nightmares. There still are, but they are less frequent. And then I thought he was getting better, more relaxed. He started seeing a therapist. He made plans for college.

Now it’s like Simon is drained of all the energy he had.

I stand in the doorway of his flat, watching him. He’s on his side, curled up like he always slept at Watford. His wings form a shield around him. He’s still as a corpse, silent. It’s not like him.

Penelope and I have both tried to talk to him. He won’t speak. He looks at us, shrugs, grunts, but he won’t speak. We ask him what’s wrong and he shrugs or shakes his head. I can’t tell if he doesn’t want to talk about it or if he just doesn’t know what’s so seriously wrong.

I hope it’s the former. To think that Simon was so damaged by the Mage, by magic, that he’s become used to this traumatized state. To think that the Mage not only took away Simon’s first eighteen years but the rest of his life too. It makes me want to hide Simon from the world and protect him so nothing else can suck the life out of him.

Simon Snow isn’t _alive_ anymore. He’s just lying on the sofa, and I have no idea what to do about it.

I go to sit on the arm of the couch. I see Bunce peering out from her room. She mentioned that she’s afraid to leave Simon alone. I don’t know if I’d want to either. I don’t know if I will.

“Snow,” I say gently.

Simon rolls over to look at me. His face softens, but he doesn’t smile.

When was the last time I saw him smile?

“Are you feeling alright?” I ask him.

Simon doesn’t answer at first, then shrugs. I’m used to his excessive shrugs, but I just want to hear his voice.

“You want to go and get something to eat? Scones?” I offer. Simon can’t refuse scones.

But he seems to close in on himself. His shoulders pull in and his gaze flits down. He shakes his head.

I frown. “Have you already eaten?”

He shakes his head again.

“When did you eat last?”

He shrugs.

“Have you talked to your therapist lately?” I may not see the point in a therapist for myself, but she was really helping Simon.

He shakes his head, then rolls back over so his face is pressed into a pillow.

I reach down to comb my fingers through his hair because I know he likes it. It’s greasy and flat. I grimace. “When did you last shower, love?”

Simon doesn’t respond. His breathing evens out. He’s fallen asleep.

“He’s been sleeping a lot lately.” Penelope appears at my side. “So much,” she says. “I thought it was good that he’s sleeping well, but it’s all he does now. It’s not . . . It’s not him.”

“I don’t know who this is,” I agree. “I’ll stay here tonight. You ought to get out of the house.”

Penelope looks dubious. She runs her hand over Simon’s wing, gently.

“I’ve got him, Bunce.”

She lets out a tiny, dry sob. “Crowley, I’m sorry.” She sits back, taking a deep breath. “I feel like I’m watching him unravel again. But it’s so much worse, Baz. He won’t talk to me, he won’t eat, he won’t _get up_. He just sleeps. I think he cried himself to sleep a few nights ago. I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure something else out. We won’t lose him,” I say, though I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. “Can you get in touch with his therapist?

“I can try.”

 

I got Bunce to take some time off and got Simon to take a shower, but he’s been in there so long I’m starting to worry.

I knock on the door. “Snow? Are you alive in there?”

No response.

I knock again. “Simon,” I say.

He doesn’t respond.

I try the door and it’s unlocked. I open it partially. “Simon?” I ask again before coming in. When I don’t get a reply, I enter the bathroom. Simon is sitting under the water. How long he’s been there I don’t know.

“Simon!” I kneel by the tub and pull Simon up. The water is still warm. I pull him up and he sputters, coughing, spitting water.

 **_“Spit it out!”_ ** I cast, which isn’t the proper spell here, but it works nonetheless. **_“Get well soon! Flow like a river!”_ **

Simon stops coughing, leaning over the edge of the tub. He doesn’t say anything. Just his labored breathing and my panicked gasps.

I take his face in my hands. His skin has a faint blue tint. His eyes are bloodshot.

“Get out of the tub, Simon,” I say, sterner than I mean to be.

Simon nods. I help him out of the tub, throwing a towel around his body. Crowley, his skin is red like he’s been burned.

I hug him tightly to me. I don’t care about anything else right now. Simon presses his face into my neck. He’s shaking.

“Simon,” I say because I don’t know what else to say. I hold him tight, one arm a steel band around his waist, the other holding his head close and running my fingers through his hair. “Simon, what were you thinking? Were you trying to kill yourself?” I whisper.

“No,” Simon chokes out. His voice is hoarse from disuse, or maybe it’s the fact that he almost drowned. He shakes his head. “It was warm. Felt like magic. I just wanted to stay there for a little while, just to rest and feel like I was magic again. I just wanted . . .” He tapers off.

Simon hardly lies. He wouldn’t lie to me. Maybe he thinks this is all he wanted, but I feel like I know that look in his eyes. I know that voice. Maybe he didn’t know it, but he was trying to die. He saw peace in the water and wanted to stay. Crowley, for Simon to survive the Humdrum and a deranged Mage, only to die like this. I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine losing him.

“I’m sorry, Baz,” Simon whispers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Hush,” I soothe, combing my fingers through his hair. I hold him, never wanting to let him go. I hold him because I can’t do anything else. And because I don’t want him to see the tears that threaten to overflow because he needs a pillar. Bunce is wrung out. Simon is unraveling. I need to hold him together.

He’s shaking, sobbing. I hold him tighter.

“You’re alright, love,” I whisper. Then I correct myself because Simon is not alright. “You’re going to be alright.”

Simon shakes his head like he doesn’t believe me.

 

“Good morning, Si—Oh, Basilton?”

“Good morning, Dr. Albright. I need to talk to you about Simon.” I may not think much of a magickal therapist, but Simon needs help and I can’t give it to him. This woman seems to be the only one who can. I had Penelope set up a video chat with the woman because I told her what happened with Simon and she agreed that we needed to make his therapist aware.

“Mr. Pitch, you know I can’t discuss my sessions with Simon with anyone.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. There’s something you should _know_ about Simon.”

She looks skeptical, but nods. “Very well, what is it?”

I explain that Simon had gone dormant on the couch and how I found him in the tub last night. Dr. Albright is better at masking her expressions than even my father because she listens to it all with a professional poker face.

When I’m done, she nods. “I appreciate you telling me all of this. I’ll have to discuss it with Simon when we speak next. Speaking of which, I am also available if you want to talk to me, Basilton. Even only temporarily. Even caring for a trauma victim is distressing. But, though this may be slightly unprofessional, I’m told you’ve dealt with your own share of issues.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t. “Should I have Simon call you later today? He’s asleep at the moment.”

“Simon and I had an appointment scheduled today. But remind him.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

 

Snow does talk to Dr. Albright that afternoon. I stay in the kitchen, drinking tea, and he talks to her in his room. I want to eavesdrop but I don’t.

He emerges after the session. I can’t tell how it went. He sits on the table and wordlessly takes my hand. I kiss his knuckles, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t, but he seems relaxed enough. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine in return.

I’ll take it.

 

It’s small steps from there. I stay at his flat for the night. Bunce brings takeout for dinner and Simon eats at the table with us. He doesn’t eat much, but he eats. Bunce and I chatter for the most part, both of us keeping an eye on Simon. He doesn’t talk with us but he isn’t unresponsive. He nods here and there, shrugs, makes sounds of agreement.

It’s something.

He sleeps in his bed that night and I sleep with him. He lets me hold him, his face buried in my shoulder.

“Baz,” he says, long after I thought he had gone to sleep and I started to drift off myself.

“Yes, love?” I reply, smoothing his curls.

“Why haven’t you left yet?”

“What?” I pull back to look Simon in the eyes.

Simon seems bashful, embarrassed. He looks like he wants to pull away. I hold him tighter.

“Why are you still here?” He asks quietly. “Why haven’t you changed your mind yet?”

“Are you actually asking?” I say.

He shrugs.

“Simon,” I say, lifting his chin. “Haven’t we talked about this?” I ask, gently. I don’t want a fight. I’m not upset with him. But I know I’ve told him I’m staying. Magic or not, I’m not leaving him, not now, not ever. I don’t know how many heartfelt speeches I can give him for him to understand.

I’ve gotten better at this _feelings_ thing since getting with Simon. But lately, feelings seem to be all we can focus on—and not the good kinds of feelings. It’s tiring, but I want Simon happy again. I’d give anything to see him so _alive_ again.

Simon won’t look at me. “I-I know but—”

“I’m not leaving, Simon. Not now or anytime soon. I’m here with you for as long as you want me to be.”

“But what about when you don’t want to be?”

With that, Simon pulls himself closer to me, falling asleep before I know how to answer.

 

The next few days are filled with slow progress, but progress. Penelope and I make breakfast in the mornings, make sure Simon eats with us. Sometimes Simon talks. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he eats. Sometimes he doesn’t.

“Not ravenous this morning, Snow?” I’ll tease.

Simon will look at me, but the look isn’t always the same. Sometimes it’s an eye roll, other times he looks guilty. I’m never sure if I’m saying the right things. Bunce has procured a job. Simon was looking for one until he fell into his depressive state. We take shifts, Penelope and I, watching over Simon. If he notices it, he doesn’t say anything about it. We keep him busy with small distractions.

Snow reads now. He’s borrowed some of Bunce’s limited novel collection. If he keeps this up, I’ll culture him with real literature, not Bunce’s terrible tastes in authors. Once he’s asked me if I _sparkle_ . I don’t even know why Bunce has _Twilight_.

“For when I need a good laugh,” she explained, but I think it’s a guilty pleasure of hers.

 

After three weeks of this, I wake up to Simon hovering over me.

“Good morning, Snow,” I murmur.

“Morning,” he whispers back.

I run a hand up his back, feeling the firm muscles there (and avoiding the wings). “You feeling alright?”

Snow nods, leaning down to kiss me. I don’t know what’s gotten into him but I’m not complaining. The kiss is gentle but steady, two words I haven’t associated with Simon in a while. He’s been improving: talking to his therapist weekly, picking up a few new hobbies. He even mentioned looking for a job again. He’s gone out with us a few times. But he hasn’t been like this: so _Simon._ But I’m going to enjoy it because I don’t know how long he’ll stay this way.

We kiss for a while, lazy, slow kisses that still make my heart race. I rub circles into Simon’s back and his tail wraps around my thigh. (Sometimes I’m still surprised by the tail, which seems to have a mind of its own.)

When Snow lets me breathe, I sit up, smiling. “Best alarm clock there is,” I say, kissing him again. “How’s breakfast sound?”

“Sounds good,” Simon says and smiles. _Smiles._ Crowley, I haven’t seen him smile in weeks, maybe months. It’s so _Simon_. It makes me feel something I don’t care to identify. Or something I don’t get the chance to. Because I burst into tears. I don’t know why I do and I hate to do it. But seeing Simon smile when lately it seems like getting him to make eye contact seems like a Herculean task just breaks me.

I put a hand over my mouth because I’m near _sobbing_ for no good reason.

Simon takes me into his arms. “Woah, Baz, what happened?” He asks, sounding more shocked than anything. I’m shocked too.

I don’t know how to explain this just yet, so I just let Simon hold me. He kisses my forehead, letting me sob. That’s so very Simon: holding me while I’m crying when he’s been the one in a depressive episode for weeks. I don’t deserve him but I’d be damned if I ever let him go.

“I’m sorry,” I say, hiccuping. I don’t know how long I cried for.

Simon shakes his head, running his fingers through my hair. “Nothing to be sorry for. What happened, though? You were happy and then you . . . weren’t.”

“Simon, I am happy. It’s just that . . .” I trail off. Simon watches me expectantly. I take his face in my hands and he smiles again. A tiny sob escapes me and he frowns. “It’s just good to see you smile again, love.”

He smiles again and kisses me. It’s quick and sweet. “It’s good to smile again,” he says against my lips.


End file.
